


Inside

by proval



Series: Southside Forever [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gap Filler, Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PTSD-like symptoms, Past Abuse, Prison, Rough Sex, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proval/pseuds/proval
Summary: Ian doesn’t belong here, like Mickey does. Mickey might feel safer in here than he does on the outside sometimes, but Ian definitely doesn’t. He has his family out there. The best part of Mickey’s family’s inside.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Southside Forever [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767688
Comments: 31
Kudos: 247





	Inside

The point’s almost too narrow. It wants to be sharp, but not too sharp. His back’s against the half-height door. His feet just short of the can. He’s been filing it and filing it. Split his hand, to begin with. Taking out the teeth in the comb. His dad showed them how - him and Iggy - after Iggy got time for - what was it? Possession? Possession and joyriding? His first stint in Juvie. Dad didn’t split his hand then, not like Mickey.

He’s still filing it and if he’s not careful it’ll disappear. Can’t remember why he started to make it. _Protection._ Yeah. Protection, no shit, but protection from who exactly? There’s a name somewhere, or a series of names, he can’t quite get. But Ian doesn’t know how to do this. Doesn’t know that if the spear-point gets too thin, it might break on impact. Mickey’s still filing and filing though, like his hands aren’t his own, like he doesn’t know how to stop. It’s too sharp. If it gets any sharper it might disappear - just turn into nothing. One hand full of duct-tape. One hand working. It’s almost gone and now Mickey thinks good. He _wants_ it to go away now. He wants to see the shiv vanish, wants to -

 _Thump._

Something bows beneath him. Buckles. Mickey knows this is safe. He remembers this. This sudden warmth rising around him. This wet mouth on the back of his neck. This nose just touching his ear. This body readjusting and then pressing into him. This hand splaying on his belly, fingertips pushing into his abs. Mickey hums and smiles. He pulls, pulls at the fringes of the image of the shiv and finds it starts to mist, dragging up like a stage curtain, a wet blanket. Something like smoke half-way between the dark landing bathroom and a cell lit by high power LEDs. 

His cell. Mickey’s there now. With Ian. Ian’s not manhandling him enough yet so Mickey has to reach round and try to clamp them together. Ian makes fast work with the waistband of Mickey’s boxers, slides a palm over his ass-cheek, pushes his fingers in. Not so bad a wake up - not so bad a -

_What the fuck?!_

The smell of mayonnaise tears through his airways and wrenches him out of safety. He elbows Ian off the bed.

“Get the fuck off me!” 

What the fuck was he thinking? Mickey’s mind jumps. It’s gotten a lot harder. Harder not to let his mind jump. 

“What’s your problem?”

And it’s not like he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to just let himself sink into Ian. But prison’s a bitch and Enzo can eat his cornhole.

*

Mickey can almost pretend this is a laundromat for giants. He collects the last of the wet clothes from one of the machines and piles them onto his already too-full trolley. Spider’s empty one rattles past.

“No way are you finished man.” 

Spider winks at him as he barrels out. “Fourth load of the day, sucker.”

Mickey drags the overburdened thing to the driers on the other side of the room. His head’s stuck on Ian. On all the shit they don’t say to each other. They don’t really talk about what went down before or what’s going to happen next. When they touch on it, Ian has to drag those conversations from him. It’s not that Mickey doesn’t know how to talk it’s just he doesn’t see the point. For once, he doesn’t have to bend to Ian’s will, he doesn’t have to soften into Ian’s needs. He can just... They’re stuck here, together, for at least a year, and that’s... that’s... something holding Mickey in tact. Neither of them can leave and that means they can fight. It’s something they never had before. The certainty that the other would be lying above or below them every night. He presses the start button three times on the drier and moves on to the next one. 

But this place fucking sucks at the same time because it’s fucking prison. Ian doesn’t belong here, like Mickey does. Mickey might feel safer in here than he does on the outside sometimes, but Ian definitely doesn’t. He has his family out there. The best part of Mickey’s family’s inside. Mickey can’t help but lash out at Ian, and Ian back at him. And even if Mickey knows Ian can’t go anywhere, Ian still knows exactly how to push his buttons, how to crawl under his skin, and it _hurts._ It fucking hurts more than making fun of him that he doesn’t read or whatever should hurt. Mickey’s mind spirals into... into... you were the only one of all the fuckers I could count on not to think I’m stupid. You told me I could make something of myself once. You cast spells which made me start to believe I was worth something. Those things were beautiful once and now they’re weapons.

He has to shake himself out at moments like this, when he’s not trapped with all these wet yellow jumpsuits. Hover by the door of the cell ready to escape into the the hall, or better still, the gym, or the yard. Let the wind blow through his mind. Bite his lip at the shifting muscles in some-dude-he-doesn’t-know’s back. Turn his thoughts into the bounce of a basketball. 

Any of these would be fine. Anything to drown out that voice in his mind. 

He _can_ leave you again. He might leave you again. He’s gonna leave you again. 

“Load number five, bitches!” 

Spider comes skidding through the door on the back of his trolley.

“Yeah, OK, Omar, laugh it up.”

Spider squints at him, and Mickey has to admit his references can be a little obscure. 

*

“It’s this place, man.” Mickey tries to explain, when Ian tries to get him to talk again. “It does things to you.” 

And Ian gets it because he’s here too, but he doesn’t get it because he thinks things can be different. He doesn’t get the way Mickey’s head works here. 

“I don’t want it to.” 

“Not like we have much choice.” 

“What about a temporary separation?” 

_The fuck?_

Mickey brain jumps again. _Why’s he always trying to get away from me? Why’s he always breaking up with me?_

Even now, Ian can think up the dumbest fucking ways to kick Mickey out of his life. 

“You’re not breaking up with me, I’m breaking up with you, bitch.” 

*

No one’s breaking up with anyone. Raymond’s just given them a talking to and left, and they’re sitting on the bench, handcuffed. The metal around his wrist is weirdly reassuring. But Mickey’s always liked the feel of this. The sense of safety from being on lockdown. Safer inside than outside. 

Ian used to like him in handcuffs. But only when Ian put them on Mickey, himself. _It was hard seeing you, through the glass._ He wonders if that’s true now. If that’s part of why Ian can’t look at him. Chained down himself. Doesn’t seem to like him all that much any way anymore. They stare into different corners of the room. 

“OK.” Ian starts again, the strain in his voice which says _be reasonable, Mickey_. Why does Ian think he has the monopoly on reasonableness? Fucking gay Jesus over there. “OK, maybe we should put down some ground rules.”

“Yeah, because that’s what we need. More rules.” Mickey snips. His hand jerks and the chains under it rattle. Can’t help himself, can’t be reasonable, immediately proving Ian right. 

Ian holds his breath next to him. Probably thinks he’s the paragon of patience. Long suffering. _Fuck_ , Mickey. Calm down. 

“Yeah, I think we need some fucking rules, Mickey!” 

Ian’s slipping down to Mickey’s level, and that makes Mickey feel a bit better. Calmer, suddenly.

“OK, Benito.” It comes out a bit aggressive, but sue him. “Fucking tell me what are the rules then?”

“We’re not-” Ian starts and stops. Breathes in again. Starts again, slower. “I’m not dictating the rules to you, Mick. We decide on them together.” 

Ian _is_ trying. Mickey knows that. Just ‘Mick’ works to slow down his heart rate a fraction. But Ian knows how to soothe Mickey and sometimes it feels like a trap. Lure him in. Make him think he’s safe.

Mickey stays quiet. The thing is it doesn’t really matter what Ian says right now. Mickey’s going to find a way to take it to mean _he doesn’t love you_. 

Why’s Mickey like this? Why won’t he talk about shit, like Ian seems to be able to, now? Ian’s somehow managing to stay more stable in here with a fucking mood disorder that’s ultra sensitive to changes in the environment. And Mickey’s not helping at all. He could talk about shit once, right? Where did that go? 

Ian starts again, his voice a little more open, the tiniest bit gentler. “What do you want me to do, Mickey?”

 _Stop being so fucking annoying._ Mickey bites back. _Stop telling me what the fuck to do. Stop making me think you don’t want me as I am. That I’m not good enough. That I can’t look after you. That I -_

“Maybe don’t go and shiv a bitch to get away from me.” 

Ian scoffs at that. “Yeah, well, what the fuck is the point in chasing after me to stab the guy multiple times in the fucking thigh?” 

Mickey lets out a soft chuckle. He’s goaded Ian and it feels good. And stabbing Chester had felt fucking good too. That familiar rush from violence. Feeling like a Milkovich. Gallagher by his side again. On his side, just for that moment. 

“You went for the fucking arm, man? Pussy move.” He teases, and Gallagher’s eye roll couldn’t be more dramatic. Mickey sticks his tongue into his cheek and sends him a small open mouthed smirk. 

Ian lets up at that, just slightly. He shakes his head at Mickey. There’s only a hint of fondness there, of _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ , but it’s there. Mickey knows it’s there. 

He feels his body come back to him, slow down. He hates that he has to fight so hard to get here. To find this again. But for this moment he’s going to let it sink in. Nourish him. 

“Alright, so,” Ian starts again. He ignores the coyness in Mickey’s eyes. He’s determined not to get derailed. “No going after solitary. That can be a rule.” 

Mickey sobers immediately. That shit fades fast in this place. Going after solitary. The fuck did Ian want that for?

“Yeah, that can be a fucking rule.” He lets up, and Ian just glances at him and sighs. 

“I still think we need some space -”

“What the fuck do you -”

“We _need_ some fucking space, Mickey. So how about... we divide the cell. We each get sides. You can make your side as fucking messy and shit as you -”

“Oh, wait, hold up, Clorox. This just an opportunity to rag on me again?” 

“ _No_.” Ian stares at him until Mickey leans back against the wall again, lets out a fucking-carry-on-then gesture with his hands. “Lets just do this for a week or so, and then we check in, OK?”

Mickey glances down. He feels vulnerable as fuck, suddenly. “Fine.”

So, at least they’ll check in. Why does his head get so fixed on this being forever? 

“So...” He braves it, eyes darting to one side, “that mean no banging, or...?”

Ian breathes. Loud as fuck again. He breathes so fucking loud. His voice is soft though, like he knows he needs to be gentle around this. “For a bit, yeah.”

Mickey draws his fingertips to his mouth, the chain from the cuff stopping him short. When Mickey said banging he meant more than that. Ian knows he meant more than that, right? It doesn’t matter how gentle Ian tries to be right now. “So you gonna be jerking off to some sci-fi bullshit while you put your whole goddamn hand into your mouth over in the fucking corner of my-”

“Alright, boys.” It’s the CO. “That sounds like fun. Lucky for you two, no charges, so you get to go back to your cell. You can jack off while bitching at each other to your hearts’ content.” 

Ian doesn’t even look at him on their way back.

*

And Mickey thinks it can’t really get that much worse, until it does. 

“Thought I’d be here for at least a year, didn’t you?” 

Mickey can’t really hear him. His stomach’s just dropped out of his body. He’d stayed pinned in the corner of the cell knowing that letter was from the parole board before Ian had even looked at it. Watching Ian’s reaction like it was the answer to everything. 

_Fuck._

“You got a hearing, man, good for you.” It’s a pretty pathetic attempt to play his feelings down. He doesn’t have the energy.

The buzzer comes to his rescue. He’s out of there like a flash. _That all you got to say?_ following him out. Mickey could say the same fucking thing. He hopes Ian doesn’t catch onto how much this hurts. Then again, he really hopes he does.

He swallows it down, playing a table top game with some of his boys. He’s got these guys pretty much working for him. They’re not really pally-pally like Ian’s little clue crew over there, who are fucking chatty today. What the hell are they talking about? Mickey chances a look over and gets caught by Ian’s gaze. He looks away, quick. Mickey just wants... 

“Your turn, Milky.” 

“Alright, enough with the fucking ‘Milky’, big shot.” Mickey’s back in the game, assessing the board, just now realising what Shevchenko’s last move was. “You can’t fucking go there, man.” 

“Yeah, I can. Anyway no take backs.”

“What do you mean no take backs? You can’t just flaunt the fucking rules and say ‘no take backs’? You hearing this, Jackson?” 

Jackson gives Mickey a knowing half smile. Jackson’s got his eye on Ian too. Mickey slipped him a few bills earlier - the first of a couple of instalments - to watch for fuckers who hear about Ian’s parole.

“Yup. I’m with Shevchenko.”

“Well, fuck you too.” Fuck. Mickey usually wins this game. 

He watches as Shevchenko takes his last piece. Fuck. He was banking on at least a year. Mickey just has to carry on like the floor hasn’t fallen through underneath him. Is that all Ian had to say? Is he really going to just leave Mickey here after all?

“OK, laugh it up, champ. Best outta three.” 

*

The thing is if it were the other way around... If Mickey was the one up for parole he’d be straight up sucker punching Hernandez. Ian wouldn’t have to _ask_ him to stay. Not that Gallagher would ask. He wouldn’t fucking ask. 

Something quiet behind Mickey’s frustration, his need. The gnawing in his gut. All that time without him. And the way Ian left him. Twice. No, three times. _Yeah, but Ian doesn’t belong here._ This is Mickey’s fourth time in the joint. Second in adult prison. Ian’s not like him. Not really. 

But he’s buzzing. The cell’s become even smaller somehow. And Ian’s anxiety taking up just as much space as Mickey’s. Mickey’s bored of his stupid shit, even his weird ass rambling about their future. The fuck does that matter in here? He doesn’t want a fucking long distance relationship. 

He just wants to know. That Ian’s in this like Mickey is. Why does he have to ask? 

Somehow Mickey gets the words out. He reaches deep into that place inside of himself again, that place where Ian can draw things out of him sometimes, can drag something like honesty from him. 

_Because I threw my whole fucking life away to be with you.  
I didn’t ask you to do that.  
No I just did it because it was the right thing.  
Not asking you for shit, Gallagher.  
You want me to choose to do it without you asking.  
Would that make you happy?  
Just say it - would it make you happy?  
Yes! Fuck. _

Yes, fuck. 

*

He’s got his legs against the door again. The arms of his overall are tied around his waist. Just his faded white tank sticking to his chest. Everything’s yellow and gray in here except for what’s in his hands. Whatever it is its something bright, something alive, some other fucking color. Any fucking color just not yellow, not gray, not that other shade of yellow they got the boys in D block wearing. Not that orange that’s so unlike the brightness of Ian’s hair. 

He’s got his hands all wrapped in duct tape so he can’t feel it properly. But it’s soft. He knows it’s fucking soft. With a heartbeat that he can feel, and that’s, that’s the most important thing. A line of sweat falls behind his ear. He wants to wipe it away but he can’t let go. There’s a voice in the distance and his hands tighten. Mickey knows that voice. It sends a sharp pain to his tooth, one on the top jaw, the one that’s cracked. It’s coming from far enough away not to make Mickey jump, not to mean he’s gotta run, not yet at least. He knows he’ll have to soon. 

It comes again. Only now so much closer. How’d he move that fast? Mickey had been - Mickey had been banking on at least a year. 

_Who’s fucking house does he think this is?_

Mickey’s grip tightens. His knuckles are white.

_He thinks he can suck dick in my fucking house._

He squeezes. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

_See if he can do it with a luger up his ass._

Whatever was there. Whatever was alive and colorful it’s gone. It’s cold now. It’s cool between his palms, smooth. Better for fighting. And his hands are tight. So tight around it. 

_Hey, Mickey, you want a luger up your ass? That the kinda thing you enjoy? Go ahead. You’re allowed. See, I’m not that bad of a da -_

“Fuck!” 

Mickey spills out of his bunk. He catches his body weight with an arm. Breathing quick. Trying to catch a breath. 

His other hand is clawed up tight and he tries and fails to loosen it. The light snores from above stutter a little. Pause. 

Mickey’s quiet. He pushes himself back into bed. He waits, poised, ready to fight for a moment. No one’s coming. 

“Mick?”

Mickey breathes. He pulls his lip between his teeth. His arms settle. It would be dangerous to sleep like that with any other cellmate. Mickey watches the slight movement of the dip in the bunk above him. 

“Yeah?” 

“You OK?” Ian’s words slur together. His breath slow. He sounds exhausted. 

“Uh. Yeah.” 

And Mickey is OK. His fist unclenches. He cracks the knuckles in his hand. He reaches back to swipe the line of sweat behind his ear. 

*

Ian’s watching him in the morning. Trying to be subtle about it, but watching him. Mickey lets his head fill up with air. 

The rule about different sides of the cell has implicitly been scrapped. But they’re still far from banging or all the things that surround it. Touching and shit. Ian’s been cut up about his brother’s kid and Mickey hasn’t even been able to stroke his hair or kiss his jaw. Now the silence is pronounced as fuck. Ian takes his meds. Mickey puts his nail clippings in the trash. 

It’s uncomfortable with Ian’s on-off gaze. Feels try-hard. It’s a relief to settle back onto his bunk, dressed and ready for the day (what fucking day?), where Ian can’t watch. 

“Bad dream last night?” Ian breaks the quiet.

Mickey stares up at the bunk above, startled into shyness. Swallows. 

“You know.” He mumbles finally. Casual. Try-hard. He readjusts his jaw. His tooth still aches. 

Ian does know. He’s asked this shit before but he doesn’t need to ask. He knows. 

“Yeah.” Ian breathes.

Ian has nightmares too. How can he not on his first (and hopefully fucking last) stint in prison? But there’s some kind of unspoken agreement between them about the way Mickey sleeps, about Mickey’s dreams. Like they’re important. Like they mean something. It’s not clear to Mickey what exactly but Ian seems to get it. Seems to want to acknowledge it more and more. Usually just with his arms and hands and mouth. Now with words, Mickey guesses, as they’re not banging.

Ian’s going to fuck up his parole for Mickey. 

The buzzer goes and the door slides open. Mickey’s the first to get the hell outta there. 

*

The sky’s blue and the guys in the yard are laughing and playing around. Basketball, card games, a couple dandelions coming through the wire fence that somehow escaped the industrial mower. Mickey breathes in deeply next to an opportunistic smoker behind the chimney. That guy’s a dumb fuck, going to get pulled up any minute. Mickey deliberately doesn’t stare at the topless guys getting even more shredded doing pull-ups. He nods at Shevchenko and Jackson who are laughing goofily about something. They kind of remind Mickey of his brothers or his cousins. Shit, Shevchenko’s probably related to him somewhere down the line. Wandering around today you might not even notice how much the yard is fraught with hidden hierarchies and gang rivalries. If you’re looking for advice, you shouldn’t really go to people who rank lower than you. And besides that, he wants the best advice he can get.

He’s got a fair amount of leeway out here. It’s not just the Milkovich name, it’s all the shit that Mickey’s done personally, in and out the joint. Taking hits. Running shit. Rising ranks. He takes a measure of pride in that. 

He has his weak areas, for sure. Anyone who might have the vaguest of connections to the Calderón cartel, and to be honest, the whole Mexican contingent of the joint, gets him a bit nervous. Well, except for Enzo. In a way, the racial segregation out here is useful for him as he can easily avoid who he needs to avoid. He scratches his jaw looking in through the partition to D block. Some of the guys in there have some serious debts to his dad. Good and bad ones. 

Mickey nods at Weber, who’s picking up a discarded bucket, and eying him. Prison’s always been a weird dance of keeping your head high and low in the right places, ducking and prowling. But you got to take risks too. Mickey’s main strengths haven’t just been with the prisoners but the guards. Sure, you’re going to be in a whole lot more trouble if shit goes south but there’s a lot you can do with a CO on your side. They’re just as easy or not to buy as anyone else. Mickey thought he’d need to look after Ian in here and he does. But Ian’s got a different method than Mickey most of the time. He doesn’t even belong to a gang, to a section. He seems to just... get on with people, take no shit from anyone, keep calm. Mickey takes a measure of pride in the way Ian can look after himself too. 

But Ian also doesn’t know about half the risky shit Mickey does behind his back to keep him safe and able to exist like that here. He doesn’t need to know about it. He probably doesn’t want to know about it. 

“What’s going on, Milkovich?” Weber’s a tough son of a bitch but she’s also a hustler. 

“You get me into D today?” 

“Fuck no. Hernandez’s on gate.”

“OK.” Mickey scratches his jaw. “You get me smokes?”

“How much you got?”

“Fifty.”

“I give you three.” 

“The fuck? Last I checked it was ten a pack.” 

Weber rolls her eyes, shifting the bucket between her hands. “Yeah OK, Milkovich, nice try.”

“Yeah OK, Ramona. That’s what? 70% inflation overnight? We living in Zimbabwe?” 

“Last I checked, person with the goods can price them how they want, inmate.” Weber runs a hand over her holster. Classic CO move. “And fuck you ten a pack.” 

He gets three in the end. They have a dwindling personal supply left in their cell. This batch isn’t personal though. 

Goddamn, he wishes you could get lube this easily. 

He spits on the floor, earning him a half-hearted disgusted glance from Weber. He’s gearing himself up. Now he’s got to deal with fucking Hernandez. 

*

Mickey’s got Jackson and Shevchenko pretty much beat this time. Thank fuck, he’s got money on it. Back to ordinary proceedings. This is the way it’s going to go for... until Mickey can get out. His dumb fuck brain’s already filing through escape strategies.

“By the way, Milkovich,” Jackson starts, clearing a piece. “Can you put a bit more fucking detergent in the washing machines? I swear there was some nasty shit on the drawers I got this morning.”

“Urgh fuck, Jackson.” Shevchenko mumbles. “You put them on?” 

Mickey screws up his face. “Hey, that shit’s not on me. You want to ask Spider about that. My laundry comes out squeaky fucking clean thank you very much.” 

All of them are distracted though. He’s paying both of them now to watch Ian so it’s not like he’s going to come out of this match in the green. Mickey’s pretty convinced Ian’s going ahead with his game plan today, judging by the shady way he was acting earlier. Avoiding his gaze. One word answers. It’s kind of cute. Ian’s got about a million tells. 

Sure enough, he glances over, and Ian’s actually practicing with the shiv. _Jesus_. 

“See it.” Jackson says, before Mickey can say something. 

“Let’s fucking go.” 

* 

“You’re not throwing your fucking parole for me.” 

It’s one thing Ian saying he’ll throw his parole. It’s another thing watching him about to do it. And the advice Mickey had got - that was shit he already knew.

“We need to get you the hell outta -” 

“I want to be with you.” 

“You don’t to get to be.” 

"I want to be where you are, Mickey." 

Quiet. They look at each other. Ian looks so scared. 

“You don't belong in here, Gallagher. Go get a job, be an uncle to Lip's kid. I’ll get out soon. I shouldn't of asked you to stay.” Mickey looks up at him again. 

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

Mickey kisses him. And Ian wraps his arms around Mickey. Distantly, he hears the shiv in Ian’s hand hit the wall of the cell. 

And he _does_ know. 

But he still doesn’t know for sure that Ian’s in this.

(That he’s in this the same way that Mickey’s in this... which, fuck, Mickey can’t articulate, not even in his thoughts. It’s just something that is. The most obvious thing in the world.) 

*

Fuck, Mickey loves him. Ian’s got him pinned against the wall, Mickey’s jumpsuit’s hanging off him, Ian’s hands are in his boxers, one of them spiralling round the base of his cock, the other pressed up against his asshole. Ian’s mouth’s against his neck, his tongue hot and wet, his whole body firm, his cock under his clothes pressing against Mickey’s thigh. 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes, bringing Ian’s head firmer against him with one arm. 

“How d’you want me?” Ian mutters, stroking slow and firm. 

“Fuck. In me. Get fucking in me.” 

Ian pulls off him a second to spit into his palm and put his hand back. He starts pulling and Mickey gasps at the slickness. “Yeah,” Ian’s mouth returns to his neck, just below his ear. Mickey loves it, but wants him on his lips. “Don’t have time now though.” 

“Fuck it, Gallagher.” Mickey groans, struggling to get the words out. He’s trying to get Ian out of his jumpsuit. “CO catches an eyeful, who gives a shit.” 

Ian’s laugh is low. He tugs harder, pulls Mickey’s mouth to his own. It’s hard and sweet. Long. Matched by Ian’s hand on his cock, those two fingers circling his asshole. Ian breaks off again to the curl of Mickey’s ear. His voice husky. “I want to take my time with you.” 

“Fuck, Ian.” Mickey whines. He tugs at Ian’s orange suit. “Take this shit off.” 

Mickey’s body is shaking, his stomach tensing, and he knows Ian knows that means he’s close. Ian’s hand speeds up, his dry fingers push slowly into his ass. Mickey bites his lip. His eyes squeeze shut. Ian can see him like this. Can see him perfectly. Completely losing his shit. 

He comes. Well, he orgasms. Takes another few pumps to ejaculate. Come on his boxers, his tank and a bit on Ian’s jumpsuit, tight and sticky between them. Fuck. _Fuck._

Ian’s still jacking him off, milking him through the aftershocks. Ian’s cock rigid against his thigh. When Mickey opens his eyes Ian’s staring at him just as hard. 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes, legs turning to jelly. “Let me-” 

The buzzer goes for dinner and Ian steps back, staring at him. So hard. Like Mickey doesn’t know what’s coming. 

Mickey falls forward towards him. His voice is soft, placating. “We got time, man.” His hands start to undo the collar of Ian’s jumpsuit. “I want your cock in my mouth.” 

“Aren’t you up for parole, Gallagher?” It’s Hernandez, staring in, slack-jawed. _Fuck_. “You better knock that shit off.” 

They draw apart from each other, and Mickey tucks himself in. Ian’s still staring at him. Mickey’s insides squirm. He knows that look. It means he’s going to get turned out. 

“What part of dinner time do you boys not understand?” Hernandez is still there. 

Ian finally shifts his eyes to the CO. Glances once more up and down Mickey’s body and steps out of the cell. 

*

Mickey finds Weber intimidating some newbies in the line for second helpings. He waits for her to do her shit before he cocks his head and she wanders over.

“What’s it now, Milkovich? You want extra jello again?” 

Mickey unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He shakes his head. “No. Well, yeah. But I got another request.”

She eyes him warily. “Hit me.”

“You get me a phone? Like, you know, iphone?”

She chuckles and raises her eyebrows. “You kidding me?” 

“Yeah, I’m laughing my head off.” 

“Firstly, Milkovich, you got prior. If you planning another escape it’s not just you who’s fucking ass is on the line.” 

Mickey smiles sweetly. His best innocent expression. “I’m not planning anything.” 

She scoffs, taking a check around the hall. “Don’t think I don’t know that your boy’s up for parole.” 

Mickey shrugs. “I want to do something nice for him.” 

The open tone of his voice makes her stop and look at him. She blinks. Licks her lips. 

“That shit’s not gonna come cheap.” 

Mickey’s shoulders relax. He scratches his jaw. “Didn’t think it would.” 

* 

Ian’s not there when Mickey gets back to the cell after dinner.

He wishes he could shower but uses the time to clean up at the sink as best as he can. Ian’s voice hits him just as he’s running a hand through his hair.

“Making yourself pretty for me, Mick?” 

It’s still low. The same tone as earlier. Mickey breathes in. Turns around, slow. He’s going to try and play this cool for as long as he can. 

“It work?” OK, not so much then. Ian eyes cast up and down his body. 

“Mmm,” Ian waits over by the door. Its going to shut soon. Go on lockdown for the night. Then there’s usually an hour or so before the guards come and check on them. “You always look pretty.” 

It’s corny as fuck and Mickey would usually say fuck off but he can’t when Ian’s voice sounds like this, when he’s piercing him with his eyes from over the other side of the cell, when Mickey hasn’t been fucked in the ass in almost a week, when he’s so thirsty for it. 

They wait in silence. Just looking at each other.

Then, the buzzer sounds and before the doors can slide shut Ian’s already in Mickey’s space, peeling off his tank, and shucking him out of the jumpsuit. 

They’re locked in together. Mickey pulls Ian to his lips and meets him open mouthed, popping the buttons at Ian’s collar as he does so. Ian groans and grabs Mickey by the hips, manhandling him onto his bunk and straddling him, their crotches nestled against each other. Mickey reaches up again but Ian pushes him down. Holds his arms at either side of his head. 

Mickey looks up at him, unsticking his mouth. “Gonna be like this huh?” 

He tests his wrists in Ian’s grip. It’s firm. 

Ian watches him, his gaze is steady. “You OK with that?”

Mickey swallows. Nods. His mouth’s gone dry. “Yeah, fucking, tell me what to do.” 

Ian’s eyes crinkle. He lets up one of Mickey’s arms to open up Mickey’s lips with his fingers and kiss him deep again. 

But when Mickey’s hand finds the back of Ian’s head, Ian draws back, climbs off him. 

“Get on your knees.” He says, and Mickey obeys. 

Ian takes off his own jumpsuit, tossing it aside. Frees his cock from his boxers and wobbles it at Mickey’s mouth. Mickey’s lips are already closing around it. His hands around Ian’s hips. Ian hisses from above as Mickey gets to work. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?” His voice is still steady, firm, and Mickey bobs up and down, sucking harder, wondering if he can get it to shake. “Mickey?” Ian prompts. 

Mickey slides off. He’s already a mess of saliva. “Yes, fucking yes.” 

He opens his mouth around Ian’s cock again, starts bobbing once more, a bit deeper this time, a bit-

“Say it then.” It’s still firm. Ian’s hands grip Mickey’s hair tighter. There’s the tiniest shiver in Ian’s leg. “Ask me to fuck your mouth.” 

Mickey moans around the cock. Draws back. Looks up at Ian. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. OK. “Fuck my mouth, Ian. Please.” 

Ian nods. Draws his hips back. Mickey opens his lips up a little. And then Ian’s holding him so tight by the head, thrusting forwards and back and it’s so much, it’s so good. Mickey’s eyes water and he dribbles down his chin as Ian hits the back of his throat again and again.

Mickey moans, lets loose one hand to grab his own cock. Fuck. He chokes. Fuck it feels good to have his mouth fucked like this. Fuck. 

And Ian’s leg is really shaking now, his hips stuttering ever so slightly, he pulls back suddenly, and Mickey’s left empty. Needing. 

“Ian.” He pleads. It comes out long, drawn out. Ian lets up. He lets him have it again. Holy fuck. Ian’s cock thrusting in and out his mouth. Every fucking time. Nirvana. The fucking-

“Mickey,” Ian demands, “look at me.” 

Slowly, Mickey drags his gaze up, and there he is. Ian, blown out, beautiful, staring down at him from above. 

“Fuck.” Ian breathes, his voice is shaky now, a moan ready to come out from underneath it. “Fuck Mick you look so fucking good.”

Ian stops, breathes in sharp. Mickey knows he has to now if he doesn’t want to blow. He peels his mouth off courteously, as Ian’s cock bobs next to his face. 

Mickey climbs back onto the bed and Ian’s on him in a second, pulling his boxers off from around his legs and chucking them somewhere, drawing his legs apart. 

He leans down and takes Mickey’s cock into his mouth while pushes a few fingers into Mickey’s mouth for Mickey to suck on. Mickey sucks hard and grips Ian’s head pushing it down to his crotch. Ian grunts. His head moves under Mickey’s hands. He licks up the underside of his cock, sucks on a ball, then gently swipes his tongue over his asshole. 

Mickey moans again around Ian’s hand in his mouth. “Fuck, Ian. Please.” 

“Please what?” Ian demands. That voice again. That voice that’s going to tear Mickey to pieces. 

He draws his fingers away from Mickey’s mouth, spits in his hand, and runs his wet fingers over Mickey’s asshole. He repeats himself. “Please what, Mickey?” 

“Fucking what. You know what. Fuck me.” Mickey’s getting impatient now. His voice grinding to a growl. “Gallagher.” 

Ian draws back, for a moment. He’s finding something. When he turns Mickey can see Ian’s dumbass new boob tattoo, the ripple of his deltoid. He comes back with a sachet between his teeth. His voice is a touch lighter. Ian’s nervous about this. “It’s fucking oil, OK? Or you want to go old school with the spit?”

Mickey lets out a breath he was holding. “Yeah. Yeah, oil’s fucking fine as long as you get the fuck on with it.” 

Ian gives him a dark smile and its only a couple seconds before two fingers are pressing into Mickey’s asshole, slimy and stretching him out good. He pauses for a moment. 

“Gallagher.” Mickey prompts again and Ian frowns, catching Mickey’s eyes with his own again. They’re hard, immediately putting Mickey back in that space. The space of doing what he’s told. He breathes “Ian.”

“You want me to fuck you now, Mick?”

Mickey nods. “Yes. Please. Yes.”

Ian readjusts Mickey’s leg, scissors his fingers. Mickey closes his eyes as the fingers disappear, knowing they’re about to get replaced with Ian’s cock.

They both groan as Ian pushes in. His hand closes around Mickey’s own on Mickey’s cock and they match Ian’s thrusts with strokes, breathing rough. They build up the pace, faster, harder. Mickey shifts slightly and Ian moans again. 

“Fuck,” Ian mutters, and draws back, moves Mickey onto all fours, and fucks him from behind. 

“Oh, fuck.” Mickey whines. 

Ian’s groaning, incoherent, behind him. Mickey feels his stomach tense, his legs shake. Its just his own hand on his cock now, but he drops it to grip the sheets as he comes, and keeps coming, while Ian’s ploughing deep and hard into him. He’s rolling on the aftershocks, his mind still blitzed in subspace, as Ian peels off him again, turns him around and fucks him face-to-face once more. 

“You want me to come in you or on you?” Ian’s voice is shaky.

Fuck. Mickey can’t talk for a moment. “Yeah,” he breathes. He knows he has to ask for it. “Yeah, please, come on my face.” 

Ian swallows thick, pulls out, and they both milk his cock together. A few twisting strokes and holy fuck. Ian’s moaning. And there’s come on Mickey’s cheeks, dribbling down his jaw, leaking into his mouth, dripping off his chin. He tastes what his tongue can find before pulling Ian down and pressing their mouths together, rolling on top of him. 

They kiss, sticky and sated. Hands roaming each others’ body. Again and again. 

Until eventually, Mickey rolls off, finally wipes his face with his sleeve. He’s tired as fuck. “Hot damn, Gallagher.” He has to say it. “Fuck.” He breathes.

“Fuck,” Ian agrees, quiet and breathy. He disentangles them for a moment to bring Mickey toilet paper and some water. He cleans Mickey up before wrapping him into his arms, nuzzling into his neck. “You OK?” 

“Fucking blitzed,” Mickey says, eyes closing. He hasn’t even had a moment, until now, to think about how much time they’ve got, how long that lasted. Fuck, Ian held out. “Jesus, _you_ OK, stamina?” 

Ian laughs sleepily. “You calling me Jesus or Stamina?” 

Mickey grins into his chest. They go quiet. Still. 

Goddamn, sex made everything better. Maybe Mickey had just been bitchy before because he hadn’t been getting rammed like that. 

“Why the fuck did we stop doing that?” He breathes, after a long while, and shakes Ian who’s falling asleep under him. They got to get him back into his own bunk pretty much now or maybe even a half hour ago. There’s going to be a come down, especially if they’re apart, but they have no choice. 

Ian looks sheepish. “Didn’t think you wanted to.” 

“The fuck, Ian? That was your call.” 

“Yeah, the last time we tried fucking you elbowed me in the face and told me to get the fuck off you.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, climbing off him, and letting Ian sit up. “That was the mayonnaise, Gallagher. That wasn’t you.” 

Ian acknowledges this with a small nod. He reaches up to cup Mickey’s cheek. “Just don’t want you to think I don’t take care of you.” 

His hand is soft against Mickey’s jaw and his eyes are soft too. Mickey sighs into him. There’s never been anyone who takes care of Mickey like he does. “You take care of me real good, Ian.” He leans over to kiss him again. Pulls back to nuzzle into his cheek and murmur. “Real fucking good.” 

*

“Mickey?” Ian says, once they’re back in the dark, after he’s given the CO the phone back. 

Mickey hums and Ian comes over. There’re still tears in his eyes from the Facetime call. His eyes are full of something else too. Gratitude, maybe. Maybe it’s love. 

Fuck, Ian had sounded emotional in that call. Mickey just lay below, stomach swimming. 

“Little Freddie’s pretty cute, huh?” Mickey raises an eyebrow and Ian grins at him. 

“You bet.” He casts a hand down to play with Mickey’s hair. 

“Be even cuter when you can see him in the flesh, right?”

Ian’s hand lets up. They look at each other. Ian starts again eventually.

“I’m gonna miss you, Mick.” 

Yeah. No shit. Mickey’s just got to figure out how to get to him sooner rather than later. 

“I know.” His own voice is quiet. “Miss you too, Ian.” 

And that’s a fucking understatement if he’s ever heard one. 

*

Spider’s way slower than usual today. Mickey’s almost running ahead of him. Well, not quite. But he’s definitely going a bit faster than he normally does, measuring out detergent, ramping up the temperature, hitting go. When Spider drops a bunch of wet tank tops on the floor, Mickey even helps out, tossing him the one that’s close by. Doesn’t notice that Raymond’s come in until he hears his name. 

“Milkovich. Lakhani.” Spider perks up too. Fast. 

“What’s going on boss?” Spider’s jittery as fuck, and Raymond smiles knowingly. He’s not the kind of CO to draw this shit out though. 

“Hearing results have come in. You might be interested in these too, Milkovich.”

Mickey smiles his unfriendly smile. Yeah he’s interested. 

Spider’s tearing at the envelope and then squeezing his eyes shut. “Goddamn it, I can’t look. Mickey can you do this?” 

Mickey doesn’t really like Spider using his first name in front of someone else but he lets it pass this once, shucking the letter out the envelope. He smiles to read it. “Approved, Spider. You going home.” 

“Fuck! Yes! Holy fuck!” Spider jumps up and down, clenching his fists in celebration. “Oh, fuck yeah! Hell yeah! Finally get away from those fuckers who keep putting yam in my juice!” 

Spider’s now doing the robot. Even Raymond can’t help a smile. 

“Milkovich,” he says, sobering a bit. “This isn’t coming from me but you might like to know Gallagher’s was approved too.” 

“OK, thanks.” Mickey was expecting that. As Raymond leaves, he turns back to Spider, who it seems is a pretty good dancer. “Who’s been putting yam in your juice man? I’ll fuck them up for you.” 

*

They’ve been locked down early tonight. Happens every time a CO loses control, but today its something to do with a prisoner reshuffle. The lights are as blinding as ever and there’s a sporadic patrol of the darker orange jumpsuits through the window in the door. They’re shouting obscenities at the boys on A and the boys are yelling shit back. Mickey’s been joining in on and off to amuse himself. Enzo’s in on it too. They got a light-spirited competition going on, who can yell the grossest thing. 

Ian’s not into it, tidying up instead, even picking up Mickey’s things, and letting out the occasional begrudging half smile.

Then Nana comes past, tattooed and wrinkled, and the line is slowing to a stop. When he sees Mickey through the glass, he throws him a wink. 

“That your boy?” He calls. 

Mickey looks at Ian, slightly sheepish. 

He nods. Ian’s watching them. 

“Remember what I said.”

“Uhuh, yeah. Thanks Nana.” 

“What did you say?” Asks Ian, sounding ruffled. 

Hernandez’s voice comes out clear from a couple rows back. “Lets move it along boys!” 

Nana shrugs. “Gotta go! Say hi to your daddy, Milky.” 

And he’s out of their line of sight, and the D block prisoners are fading out, and Ian’s staring at Mickey. 

“He a friend of your dad’s?” 

Mickey grimaces. He strokes the back of his head. It’s getting quieter. Even Enzo’s lost the spirit. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

He finds the spot that’s most hidden from the door, next to the wall to sit down, and lays out his legs. He eyes the window as another CO comes past. Sometimes you can sneak in a smoke at the end of a prisoner reshuffle. 

“Giving you advice?” Ian asks. 

“Pass me the smokes.” Mickey says, and Ian glances to the window before throwing them over, and looking for a sock to put on the smoke detector. 

Mickey licks his lips. “He just said I shouldn’t make you throw parole.” 

Ian blinks down at him, as Mickey lights up, avoiding Ian’s gaze, taking a long motherfucking heavenly drag. Ian settles next to him and takes the smoke off him, breathing in deep. 

Mickey’s only just got it back when Weber passes the cell and stops. 

“Watch it, Milkovich.” She says, and Mickey swears and puts it out, shoving the half smoked cigarette back in its pack. “Put that shit away _now_.”

You’d think she hadn’t been the fucker who sold them to him. 

Ian jumps back up, gesturing for the pack back to shove away. “Fucking lucky it’s her,” he placates, as Mickey grumbles, and Weber eventually moves on. 

It’s quiet.

“He been in touch? Your dad?”

 _Huh._

Terry had passed a few ‘messages’ to people he knew in here through Mickey. It had been strangely normal, the whole thing. Iggy’d passed the phone onto him back before Iggy’d got taken to county for selling coke. It wasn’t like Mickey had gone searching his dad out. It wasn’t like it hadn’t helped him; hadn’t helped both him and Ian; having those contacts.

“You really want to know about that?” 

Ian clicks his tongue against his teeth. He starts re-tucking the sheet into his bed over where he’d just replaced the smokes. 

“You mad at me now?” 

“No.” But Ian’s tone says otherwise. “I’m worried about you.”

“Yeah, sure. Same fucking thing.” 

Ian glares at him and then returns to tidying the bed. It’s tidy enough. Yeah, Ian’s concern can come out hard and sharp. Like the only way he knows Mickey’ll be safe is if he pins him to the ground. 

The air is heavy again with the shit they don’t say to each other. 

Mickey scratches the back of his neck. They only have two more days together. They don’t have time for this. 

“Just say whatever you want to say, tough guy.” 

“Sure about that?” Ian doesn’t turn to face him. 

“You won’t be able to pretty soon.” 

That makes Ian look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mickey’s palms fly up. “Parole? You heard of it?” 

Ian rolls his eyes. He approaches Mickey. The height advantage is even more unfair than usual while Mickey’s sat on the floor. 

“You heard of a telephone?” He’s raising his voice. “You better not be planning on just going radio silence, Mickey.” 

Mickey squirms a little. Ian looks down at him.

“You want me to ring you?” Fuck. His voice sounds so tentative. Unsure. 

Ian sighs, and crouches down. “Yes.” He says reaching his hand out to cup Mickey’s jaw, stroke down the back of his ear. “Yeah, Mick, you better ring me.” 

Mickey looks at him. His soft eyes, his downcast lids, his pale skin and smattering of faded freckles, the light stubble on his jaw. Mickey’s eyes flit up to his red hair. Ian’s solidity. His patience. His endless patience. 

Mickey wants to kiss him, but he stops himself. Feels his bottom lip fold under his teeth as a poor substitute.

“What’s it you want to say to me?” 

Maybe they take turns. Being the one who can talk about shit. The one who has to push the other to open up. But Ian’s present now, with him here, glancing between Mickey’s lips and his eyes. 

Ian leans in and Mickey feels himself unsticking his lip from beneath his teeth, meeting Ian’s mouth, hungry as always. 

They kiss, firm and open mouthed. One of Mickey’s hands floats to Ian’s neck and runs down his chest, popping open the buttons on his jumpsuit as it goes. Ian’s hand grips around Mickey’s jaw, a pressure that Mickey melts into, that he needs. 

But Ian pulls back. Holds Mickey back from chasing his mouth. Thumb swiping under Mickey’s bottom lip. His eyes are stern again. Mickey kind of likes that. Likes the way they pin him. They hold him to account. 

“Don’t try any more stupid shit in here, Mickey.” He pauses. His voice is low. “Behave.” 

“Say that again, Gallagher.” Mickey watches Ian’s lips, his own mouth curling into a smirk, his tongue finding inside of his cheek. 

Ian sighs. It’s fond though. There’s a heat behind it that he can’t resist. “I’m serious, Mick.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows raise. “Yeah, me too.” His voice is reassuring. His hand’s still on Ian’s chest. He pops another button open. 

“You don’t need to take risks or,” Ian’s voice gets harder, “do any jobs for Terry.”

Mickey’s hand drops, he leans back on the wall, shucking out of Ian’s grip. “Jesus. Way to kill the mood.”

Ian shakes his head lightly. “I want you to actually hear this shit, OK?” 

“Thought you said I wouldn’t want to know?”

“And I was right, right?” 

Mickey groans. 

“Wish I didn’t fucking ask.” 

“Too bad.” Ian launches himself to his feet, easily, turning away. “And don’t try and fucking escape again.” 

Mickey squints at him from the floor. His own hand finds the back of his head, and strokes upwards against the grain of his hair, calming himself down. 

“You gonna fuck me tonight or what, army?”

Ian looks down at him, like he’s crazy. “’Course I am.” He lifts up the mattress he’s been fussing over and tosses something down to Mickey. “Look what I got for you.” 

Mickey catches it and grins. Medical grade lube. 

*

“So,” Ian’s taking his pictures of crosses off the wall, reasonably assuming that Mickey doesn’t want them. “You still planning on banging other people?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. He’s lying back on Ian’s bunk today. He plans to sleep there once Ian goes. “Come on, man. Who am I gonna bang?”

Ian sighs, screws one of the pieces of paper into a ball. “I dunno...? Jackson, maybe? Spider?” 

Mickey squints over at him. “Can’t bang Spider, he’s getting out too.” 

Ian tosses the balled up paper at him and Mickey laughs. “Seriously?” Ian pauses for a moment. “He made parole? After what he did to McLaughlin? They must really want to clear up space.” 

“Yeah, apparently dude was putting potato in his juice or something.”

Ian clicks his tongue against his teeth, looking away. “Whatever, Mickey.” 

Mickey tosses the ball of paper back at his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll save myself for you, you fucking lunatic.” 

*

 _Hey, Mickey. Don’t you forget who’s house this is._

Mickey’s stomach tightens and his tooth is aching again. He trying to open the half-height door, stooping to protect the thing in his hands. The delicate thing. The thing that breathes. That has a heart that beats. 

The voice is coming from outside but it’ll be able to get in here soon. It’s better if Mickey can run, can somehow find a way past it, can get through, can get the fuck out of here. 

And then, suddenly, a softer voice. A warning. Kind. 

_Don’t try to fucking escape again, Mickey._

Mickey startles. He almost drops it. The soft thing that his palms are curled round. He’s going to go. He’s going to leave Mickey. _He’s going to go._

Mickey doesn’t know what to do. Poised between staying and getting the fuck out of there. He leans towards the door, if he can see over it. There’s a mob. A mob of people with the same face. The same goddamn face. He retreats. Leans against the door. Breathing sharp. It’s soft what’s in his hands. It’s gentle. 

A different voice. A call. A question. 

_That your boy?_

Yes. Yes, Nana. Yes. That’s my boy. But he can hear the mob getting closer. Mickey bends over to protect the thing that’s in his hands, and he steps over a roll of duct tape and slips. Something loosens, unclenches, and the thing nearly slips out of his hands, which... which now won’t bend or grip at all, like they’re made of silly string, and now it’s gone, clattering, metal or hard plastic, like a shiv after all, nearing the drain in the middle of the room -

“No!”

Mickey startles awake. His breath comes out hot and fast. There’s something heavy on top of him, weighing him down.

It’s Ian. It’s Ian, moving softly now. Ian slept wrapped around him. 

It was their last night together. They’d thought _fuck it_. 

No. What had happened was that neither one of them could leave the other one alone.

Ian stirs, grips around him tighter. “It’s OK, Mick.” 

It’s not OK. It’s early but it’s not early enough. Ian’s going to be gone soon. 

“It’s OK, Mick,” Ian mumbles again, into Mickey’s neck. “I’ve got you.”

It's not OK. But Ian does have Mickey. 

There's no fucking doubt about that. 


End file.
